


Ink

by MintJam



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bad coping mechanisms, Introspection, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Repressed Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-01-16 08:37:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21268169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: “Fucking hell, Tom, you always did fight like a ferrett,” says the voice of a ghost behind him. Tommy freezes on the spot, heart thundering like a hammer in his chest. It can’t be. It fucking can’t be. He turns slowly, trying to straighten up to face the man he last saw five years ago. His shoulders look broader, the beard heavier but there’s no mistaking the intensity of those eyes.“Alfie?” he gasps, incredulous.





	Ink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vamillepudding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vamillepudding/gifts).

> This is a bit different for me; a Modern AU. Set in the present day.
> 
> Thanks to the lovely museboundinshallows for being beta-reading!

“Just one drink, Tommy,” Ada’d said. “To celebrate. Or commiserate. Hell, I don’t know, whichever you feel like, eh? Just don’t spend it on your own.”  
  
It was his own fault for messaging her, for telling her the decree absolute had arrived on his desk that morning. Should have kept his mouth shut, gone home and drowned himself in a bottle of Slane. Should have fucking listened to her about Grace three years ago for that matter. Would have saved himself a truck load of grief. Still, what’s done is done, and he has Charlie to show for it — every other weekend at least.  
  
They’d met at Ada’s favourite haunt, a dark, quiet bar tucked round the back of Bond Street. She was perched on a barstool when he arrived, with that familiar twist to her mouth that meant he didn't know whether she was about to hug him or scold him or laugh in his face. He didn’t much mind which.  
  
“So come on, Tom, which is it? Are we celebrating or commiserating? Champagne or gin?”  
  
In his elongated moment of hesitation she’d ordered cocktails instead. “Fuck it, why decide?" she'd said, handing him a glass. "Gin and fizz."  
  
Of course one cocktail had turned into five. And loosened his tongue considerably. “You left out commemorating,” he’d slurred as the cocktails gave way to shots.   
  
“We are not commemorating that prize _bitch_,” Ada had said, “that would imply an element of respect. She doesn’t deserve any … not after what she did to you.”  
  
“Not Grace,” he’d said quietly, unable to look his sister in the eye. “Mum. It's twenty years, Ada. Twenty years ago _today_.”  
  
“Fuck,” she’d whispered, and the way she’d rubbed his arm and said, “I’m so sorry Tommy,” had clearly been meant with warmth, yet it only made him feel guilty, for what he wasn't quite sure — for guarding the date and owning the memory — for bringing it up at all. Ada had been too young of course, hadn’t been there that day, didn’t have the date and the image seared into her mind like he did. She hadn’t even found out it was suicide until years later; they’d all been sworn to secrecy, him and Arthur and John, for fear of shame or gossip. One more mark against the Shelby name they’d said. He should never have burdened her with it tonight, his lovely sister who was so full of life. Which is why he’d upped and left the bar, shrugged off her pity and her pleas to come back to hers. He hadn't meant to be quite so abrupt, but he'd needed to escape. 

*****

  
Except now he’s stuck in no man’s land, a few dozen metres outside Euston and miles from his house in the fields. It’s as though the universe has conspired to remind him that he can’t escape, can’t run away, can’t evade what’s inside his own head. So now he's held captive in an overly-bright carriage with only his thoughts and a few inebriated strangers for company.   
  
He resigns himself to the wait. The minutes tick by, and passengers fall largely silent, the unnatural camaraderie of the last train home being slowly drained by boredom and frustration. When half an hour has passed it’s the sound of successive sighs and the odd snore that fills the carriage around him. He's thinking about the day his mother caught him pinching sweets, how she'd tried to hide the smile in her eyes as she'd scolded him, when the tannoy crackles to life. “Ladies and gentlemen apologies for the delay. I have just been informed there is a person under the train in front. Emergency services are on the scene.” A chorus of sighs and the odd jeer reverberates through the train from passengers sadly familiar with this type of hold up — although no less keen to get home. “We are being held here until the line has been cleared. I will update you when I have further information.”  
  
Further information is the last thing Tommy wants, his mind is already busy concocting its own macabre stew: blending images of dismembered body parts from his tour of Afghanistan with the memory of that last day in his mother’s bedroom. There are too many pictures to choose from: crying siblings; stoic men; all the ragged manifestations of grief he's had the misfortune to see. He swallows hard and hopes that whichever poor soul has chosen the tracks over life tonight doesn’t have kids. Or parents.  
  
A youngish bloke sitting diagonally opposite starts grumbling to his mate. “Selfish fucker,” he says, in a voice clearly designed to carry. His clothes mark him out as a labourer of some sort: torn bomber jacket, dirty tracksuit bottoms, everything splattered in paint. “If you’re gonna top yourself at least do it somewhere it ain’t gonna wreck everyone else's night.”  
  
“Poor soul,” says the woman in front of Tommy, crossing herself as she mutters a defiant prayer beneath her breath. Everyone else studiously ignores the outburst, including Tommy, too focused on suppressing the unwelcome swell of emotions that's threatening to surface. Strange how suicide makes people so judgemental. This is why they didn’t want anyone to know he supposes — Polly, his father, his uncles. Reactions like this.  
  
“I mean what’s wrong with hanging yourself in the privacy of your own home?” says Paint Splatters, clearly keen to share his opinions. "Or taking a bucket of pills?" his mate laughs. Tommy opens his eyes a sliver to glare at them, keeps his head tipped back against the seat and just looks. “Save a hell of a lot of clearing up,” he continues. Another passenger tuts.

“I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself,” Tommy says, after another insensitive comment. He keeps his head tilted nonchalantly back, but he can already feel it building.  
  
“You fucking what?” starts Paint Splatters, sneering back at him.  
  
"Have some respect, someone's died, eh?"  
  
"Well that's their own fuckin' fault ain't it? I'm only sayin' what everyone's thinking, mate."  
  
And he told himself he wouldn’t do this; he’s too drunk, this guy’s too big, but something about the way his lip curls just flips a switch in Tommy. He’s not even thinking as he rises from his seat, he never is when the rage takes over, “well no one wants to hear it you ignorant fuck,” he snarls. He’s landed the first blow before he’s even finished the sentence. Blind fury keeps him from feeling the first of the returned punches and he just has time to clock the blood trickling from Paint Splatters’ nose before his mate joins in and thumps Tommy's jaw so hard his vision blurs. He’s vaguely aware of movement around him, people jumping out of the way as he is dragged towards the open part of the carriage, with doors on either side. _Shit_.   
  
He inflicts as much damage as he can, swinging hard and fast at both their faces, accuracy his ally for as long as he can stay on his feet. He hears their shocked gasps — can tell he's connected with jaws and cheekbones by the way his knuckles ache — before a flurry of blows to his stomach takes him inevitably to the ground. He’s no choice then but to take the kicks, to curl up small and protect his head until his assailants run out of steam (or he blacks out) whichever happens sooner.  
  
In the end it’s neither. Someone else has joined in, someone handy with their fists by the sounds of things. He hears the thud of a head hitting the floor and sees Paint Splatters crash down beside him, eyes rolling. It's swiftly followed by the voice of his mate stammering a pathetic surrender.  
  
Tommy doesn’t look back to see who's saved him, just crawls to the door and slams the emergency release, setting the train alarm off as he tumbles onto cold hard metal. He coughs painfully as the cold, night air hits his lungs and spits blood onto the tracks. He’s staggering to his feet when a pair of hands hauls him up roughly by the armpits. The new threat prompts a surge of adrenaline and he throws his head back hard and fast into the body that’s holding him up. He hears a sharp exhale in response and staggers, doubling over as the hands let him go.

“Fucking hell, Tom, you always did fight like a ferrett,” says a winded voice behind him.  
  
Tommy freezes on the spot, his heart thundering like a hammer in his chest. It can’t be. It fucking can’t. He turns incredulously, trying to stand up straight to face the man he last saw five years ago. The shoulders look broader, the beard heavier, but there’s no mistaking the intensity of those eyes. “Alfie?” he gasps.  
  
“Yeah, believe you me, mate, I’m as unimpressed as you are." He's clutching his sternum, rubbing over the spot where Tommy's head made contact. "When I realised it was your sorry arse getting kicked I nearly left ‘em to it. Fuckin' should have too. _Jesus_."   
  
“Alfie, I …” Tommy starts, but between the pain in his ribs and the maelstrom of emotions, he can’t spit out one further word.  
  
“Yeah, verbose as ever I see,” Alfie says. “Best get off the tracks before we get ourselves arrested, eh? I’ve just inflicted some serious damage on those two sorry cunts and could do without the law breathing down my neck." He's looking down at Tommy as if he’s just unwrapped a very disappointing birthday present. "And unless you’ve turned over some fresh and improbable new leaf, which judging by that little display onboard there I’m guessing you most certainly _haven’t_, then coppers aren’t top of your Christmas card list either. So fuckin’ _move_.”  
  
Of course Alfie is right, and galling as it is, Tommy follows the instruction and heads back down the line towards London. It hurts to walk, hurts to breathe and he’s struggling to see for the blood leaking into his eyes. It’s pure adrenaline that keeps him moving, mostly, and they reach the end of the platform back at Euston station after a few pained stops for breath. Begrudgingly, he lets Alfie drag him up onto the concrete where he collapses in a sprawl. Alfie obligingly looks away, leaving him free to screw his eyes shut for a moment and catch his breath. When he reopens them Alfie is thumbing at his phone, face fixed in concentration.  
  
“What’s your address?” he asks without looking up.

“We’re not swapping fucking details,” Tommy replies.   
  
“I’m booking you an Uber, you dumb prick! Or did you plan on walking home in that state?”  
  
Tommy tries to answer, but it only comes out as a groan. Proving Alfie right hurts almost as much as his stomach.  
  
“Thought not,” says Alfie, shaking his head dismissively, fingers still poised on the screen.  
  
“So where to, hmm?”  
  
“Shad Thames,” Tommy manages, garbling out the post code of his London flat; no point trying to make it back to the house now. He scrambles to his feet and commences a slow, bent walk through the emptying station. The last trains have already left; soon it'll close for the night.   
  
“Driver’s one minute away,” Alfie says, checking his phone screen again once they’re standing outside the station's front doors. “Then you can stop looking at me like I’m some _shit_ you trod in and go back to whatever merry existence you had without me.”  
  
That statement pierces Tommy like a knife to the stomach, a sharp, physical reaction. Fuck, he’s going to be sick. He tries to move, but it’s too late. He doubles over and heaves up blood and gin straight onto the pavement beneath him. He’d desperately like to believe it’s the pain or the drink that have prompted this sudden purge (he'd desperately like to be anywhere else right now for that matter). If he'd only gone back to Ada's ... he should really listen to Ada.  
  
“Fuckin’ hell, Tommy,” Alfie sighs, “not in front of the bloody cabbie! Rule 101, mate.” He can hear Alfie trying to placate the driver through the passenger window, “nah, nah he’s not pissed. Just had a nasty fall, didn’t he? Not gonna be sick again, are you, Tom?” Alfie calls over his shoulder. The driver’s buying none of it and has torn off before Tommy’s even managed to straighten up, let alone contort his features into an expression that looks slightly less fucked.  
  
“Bloody hell,” Alfie grumbles. “Some damsel in distress you are."  
  
"What does that make you, the fucking hero?" Tommy mumbles, voice thick with disdain.

"Some'ing like that, yeah..." Alfie says, eyeing him coldly. "Right, plan B. Get in that queue,” he points to the taxi rank where a dozen or so people are waiting for the next black cab. “And try not to chuck up in front of the driver this time.”

Alfie puts his hand on Tommy’s elbow, presumably to help him or guide him, but he shrugs it off viciously. “I can fucking walk, alright?”

“Right, well you’re just as charming as ever,” he mutters, depositing Tommy at the back of the line. "Keep an eye on him, would you?" Alfie says to the older woman in front. Unlike most at this hour she looks professional, capable, and stone-cold sober. "Had a bit of an accident, didn't he?" Alfie adds, looking Tommy up and down deliberately before he turns and strides back into the station.   
  
Tommy watches the man disappearing and feels every muscle in his body start to tremor. _Go after him_, a small voice screams inside his head. It’s quickly overridden by a hundred other voices reminding him exactly why Alfie fucked off years ago. And so he stands there pulling one arm round his middle in a futile attempt to soothe himself and keep out the biting cold.  
  
When the queue lurches forwards he knocks accidentally into the woman stood in front of him. He readies his apology as she turns to admonish him, but after one brief look she shouts down the length of the queue to the man now stepping into the only black cab. “Hey, you! This guy needs to go first.” It’s testament to how bad he must look that no one thinks to protest. 

*****

The cab driver's already pulled out of the courtyard by the time he realises he doesn’t have his keys. Or his phone. This shitty day just wants to keep on giving, it would seem. One divorce, one anniversary, one kicking ... one ghost from a former life. And now this. Bad luck's supposed to come in threes, not fives, isn't it? He sinks onto the front steps of the converted warehouse and puts his head in his hands. He wonders how long it takes to die of hypothermia (the black leather Gucci jacket has proven itself a foolhardy choice for November).   
  
He’s completely lost the feeling in his fingers and toes by the time another car pulls up beside him, but he looks up eagerly in the hope it’s a neighbour who can let him into the shared foyer. At least it'll be warmer in there. To his astonished confusion it's Alfie who steps out of the cab.  
  
“But you left,” is all he can say, the cold and alcohol having removed any filter on his tongue. No doubt he sounds dazed and pathetic because he is very definitely both.  
  
“Yeah, to get you this,” Alfie replies, throwing a bottle of water and a packet of chewing gum at his feet. “Seeing as how you threw up and everything.”  
  
Tommy looks down at the offerings. “You came here just to give me these?” he asks, opening the bottle because he is actually bloody thirsty now, come to think of it. Alfie always did have a knack for knowing what he needed.  
  
“Well if you’re thinking I came here to pick up where we left off, mate, then I hate to burst your bubble, but you’re not that bloody irresistible. Especially not in that state,” Alfie snorts, gesturing at Tommy’s battered form.   
  
Tommy just stares at his feet in silence, aware he must look a mess but powerless to do anything about it. He unwraps the gum and puts two pieces into his mouth only to discover that chewing also hurts.  
  
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Tommy. A thank you would do,” Alfie sighs, digging around in the pockets of the fur-lined leather jacket he’s wearing. It’s too big for him and so distressed it looks downright upset, like something found lingering at the back of a costume department from the 1980s. It suits him. “Thought these might come in handy too,” Alfie adds, producing Tommy's keys and mobile phone. “Fell out whilst you were getting your arse kicked.”  
  
“You watched for a bit first, eh?” Tommy says, only mildly angry at that realisation. He can hardly blame Alfie for thinking he deserved a kicking.  
  
“Yeah, well. Saved you when you’d had enough, didn’t I?” Alfie says, placing the phone and keys carefully at Tommy’s feet before backing away slowly, burying his hands in those fleecy pockets. “Go on then, in you go before you freeze to death.”  
  
Tommy stands up carefully, determined to exit stage left with a modicum of dignity intact. But then he drops the keys not once but twice — numb fingers failing him as he fumbles with the lock. He feels so light-headed when he’s bent down to retrieve them for the second time that he has to lean his head against the wall. Blood rushes in his ears and he wishes the ground would just open up and swallow him whole. He can hear Alfie paying the waiting driver before footsteps head his way. When the ugly jacket slides over his shoulders he doesn’t have time to process whether he’s more mortified or relieved. Alfie takes the keys, opens the door and lets them in with ease. 

*****

“Well, well, well. Business must be good,” Alfie says once they’re upstairs, inside Tommy’s cavernous living space. His eyes flit briefly over double height ceilings, red brick walls and a selection of modern art. Tommy watches as he turns around, taking in the cinema screen and the generous balcony before nodding just once, decisively, his apathy writ clear. 

“You want a beer?” Tommy asks.

“Nah, mate. Don’t touch it these days.” 

"Whiskey?"

"I don't _drink_. Tom."

“Since when?” he says, squinting incredulously, wondering if this is a joke.  
  
Alfie drags his gaze away from the impressive view of the Thames and steps a little closer. He fixes his eyes on Tommy’s for an uncomfortably long interlude. "Since _you_,” he answers pointedly, continuing to hold the stare.  
  
_Fuck_. Those two little words leave a thousand left unspoken. Definitely not a joke then.

"What the fuck were you thinking tonight?" Alfie asks, turning the conversation 180 degrees without warning. "Picking an argument with guys twice your size? Did you actually _want_ to get your head kicked in, hmm?"   
  
_Yes. No. Maybe_. It wasn't a conscious impulse, but at least he'd felt _something_. “Been drinking with Ada,” is what he says out loud, which is no kind of explanation and yet isn't an outright lie. Alfie can spot those a mile off, it’s better just to evade.  
  
“Bit old to still be starting fights, aren't you?” Alfie says, which of course is depressingly true.

“They pressed my buttons,” he offers.

“You were on the ground, being kicked, Tommy,” Alfie says quietly. “Could've got yourself killed.”

“S’just a few bruises,” he says, carefully rubbing his jaw ... licking over his split lip.

“And the ribs. And the eyebrow. And the knuckles," Alfie says, pointing at each injury as he talks. "You look fuckin’ awful, frankly.”

Tommy reaches into his pocket, instinctively searching for a distraction.

“It’s not in there,” Alfie says, following the path of Tommy’s hand from jeans to jacket and back again, searching every pocket. “Your vape. I didn’t bother picking it up.”

He can still feel the uncomfortable scrutiny. “Stop. I’ll live, alright?”

“S’gonna fuckin’ hurt tomorrow, mate,” Alfie says, almost to himself.

“Yeah, well that’s my problem. I’ve had worse. Had worse from my own fucking father,” Tommy snorts. It was meant to sound flippant, to prove he’s not fragile; but once the words have left his mouth they somehow prove the opposite.

“Look at you. Still so bloody _cocky_. So desperate to prove you’re invulnerable.”

Alfie shakes his head sadly and it fills Tommy with an overpowering urge to punch him … except that now the man is crowding into his space and within half a second there’s a hand curling around the back of his neck, thumb pressing behind his ear. "I lied," Alfie says, low and serious, "you _are_ fucking irresistible. Always bloody were."  
  
Tommy's breath catches and his legs feel weak. _Is this some kind of trick?_ “Where’s the fucking bedroom?” Alfie snarls, resting the other hand firmly on the small of his back. "You look like you need to lie down."   
  
Tommy is sunk ... every ache, every pain drowned in the tidal wave of need that surges through him as Alfie’s tongue licks into his mouth. They stumble frantically backwards, crashing through the bedroom door and falling heavily onto linen sheets — the ones Grace was so insistent upon buying. Tommy winces as his back hits the mattress, damaged flesh fighting with fierce desire for his attention. Alfie hears the whimper and pulls back momentarily, wrestling the leather jacket from Tommy’s shoulders and tugging the t-shirt from his jeans. He bunches the white cotton under Tommy's arms as he turns him left and right, running his hands and his eyes over his stomach and ribs as if assessing the ripeness of a melon. He sucks air across his teeth as he surveys Tommy's back, running warm hands gently over bare skin. When he’s done he grunts approvingly. “Nothing broken. Suck it up, love. You never minded a bit of pain.” Tommy feels his stomach flip and his brain zone out as hot kisses are placed all over his torso, every rib and every bruise being attended to by soft lips and an eager tongue. Alfie peels him out of skin-tight jeans and insists on taking his time. It's too slow, too gentle, too much ... not enough until Tommy is desperate and pleading.

When, finally, Alfie works himself inside it’s as if muscle memory has kicked in and erased the last five years. Every touch, every movement is so achingly familiar that it's more like a memory, a dream. They rock together hungrily, easily and even the way they’re lying — side by side, Alfie's chest against Tommy's back — feels poignant. Tommy’s ribs feel like they might be crushed by the arms that wrap him tight and yet he can’t help but arch back even harder into the embrace, the pain a price worth paying for the illusion of affection. He lets himself be seduced by it, by the broad shoulders and warm hands. Words bleed into his ear, feeding the fantasy and requiring nothing of him besides hard clenches and soft moans. Until one question pierces his stupor ... requiring an actual response. “Did you miss me, Tommy?” Alfie asks. Tommy’s too strung out to lie.  
  
“Yes,” he gasps, "god, yes." _If only you knew how_.   
  
“Show me,” Alfie whispers and Tommy writhes against the ringed hand now expertly stroking his cock, struggling to suppress the whimper as he paints his own stomach. Alfie follows him hard and fast, muffling his moans in the crook of Tommy's neck, leaving teeth marks replete with shame. As Tommy slackens against the arms that still hold him he tries to empty his mind, to stop floating and concentrate _only_ on what's real, what's physical: the slowing of breaths; the softening of bodies and the warmth as it trickles out of him.   
  
Reality seeps in gradually — uninvited but unavoidable — cool air licks at his salt-slicked limbs and forces him from the bed. Once in the bathroom his reflection stares back accusingly from the dimly-lit mirror; like a Francis Bacon painting, black and red, and warped by the fists of strangers. All the water in the world won't wash away his regrets, but he douses his face nonetheless, runs the tap till the water's so cold it might at least make him numb. He hangs his head for a moment, postponing the loss that awaits him in the next door room. Dread crawls beneath his skin as he pulls on a thick pair of jogging bottoms. At least he won't be naked for the awkward, inevitable parting. Perhaps he'll already be gone.  
  
But Alfie lies brazenly flaccid atop the crumpled, grey sheets; his open pose an invitation Tommy's eyes can't ignore. The strange thing is that Alfie looks stronger and surer, more solid despite the passage of time; he appears to take up more physical space. Maybe Tommy just takes up less. There's still the mismatched array of tattoos, of course, some poignant, some playful, some ugly as sin. Somehow even _they_ don't detract from his presence. The man just has _gravitas_. A strange sick feeling rises in Tommy's stomach as his eyes graze slowly south, finally landing on Alfie's left hipbone. He finds himself reaching out to touch the faded blue ink, to trace it with his thumb: three little letters that caused so much pain. _Tom_.  
  
“You could’ve changed this,” he says quietly, sinking down on the edge of the bed without thinking.   
  
“Hmm?” Alfie's eyes return slowly from some point beyond the ceiling.   
  
“Could have made it say … Tomorrow. Or something.”  
  
“Yeah, I could, couldn’t I?” Alfie says absentmindedly. “Could have done a lot of things.” He sits up then, crossing his legs until they’re face to face once more and he reaches across to wipe fresh blood from the cut above Tommy’s eye. “Looks just like the gash you gave me when you first found that tattoo,” Alfie says without malice. “Right after you called me … now what was it?”  
  
“... a possessive neanderthal,” Tommy finishes. He swallows into the thick silence that falls between them and feels something akin to shame.  
  
“Yeah, you always did have a way with words. Not many of 'em, but you knew how to pack a punch alright." He sounds almost nostalgic, Tommy thinks, like he's remembering a different fight.   
  
The silence swills back into the space between them, like viscous liquid filling a void. Here it comes, Tommy thinks, fixing his mask, bracing himself for the impending separation that hovers over him like a premonition. But instead strong arms pull him closer, and then the smell is too much to resist. It's the scent that locks his head against Alfie's collarbone more than the hands — sweat and sex and sandalwood and ... home he would once have said. He marvels at how easily his heart wants to be deceived and remembers his head is stronger. He'll move in a second. A minute at most. Once he's committed the false promise to memory.   
  
He can sense Alfie's brain ticking, conjuring up the meandering stream of words he'll use to take his leave, which is why the numbers don't make sense at first, “two two, one one, nine nine.” Alfie's reading aloud from Tommy’s skin, from the small tattoo that sits on his shoulder like a seldom visited friend.  
  
“Always knew that weren’t your army service number,” Alfie says, and Tommy tightens up reflexively. “Because service numbers, they have eight digits, don’t they?" he goes on, voice soft and soothing. "This, right here, is a date.”  
  
Tommy can feel the panic rising, can't even explain it rationally. It's just a deep-seated fear of being _seen_, of anyone knowing he cares. It makes him feel unbalanced, out of control, and he can feel his body priming itself to react. He doesn’t need to answer anything; if he remembers that then this can all still go away.  
  
“If I'm right," Alfie says thoughtfully, "and I suspect I am, then that date would be 22nd November 1999. Twenty years ago today.” He glances briefly at the watch on his wrist. “Well, technically yesterday now. Still. Quite the coincidence that.”  
  
Tommy tries to move, agitation rippling through him in a way he can't conceal. Alfie's hands tighten on the back of his neck, holding him still, forehead to chest. "So you gonna tell me what this has to do with tonight's little fracas or am I going to have to guess?" Tommy says nothing, couldn't speak if he wanted to, not past the pain in his throat.   
  
"OK, then. OK..." Alfie says calmly. “Gonna start with Finn’s birthday? Gotta be about the right year." God he sounds like he's solving a crossword puzzle, the arrogant fucking bastard. "But then you wouldn't do him and not the rest of your mad siblings, would you? Nah. So no. It can't be that." There's a long pause. Alfie's hands stay firm.  
  
“The date you signed up maybe?” he muses, and he must know he's talking to himself because Tommy has no intention of answering. “Right year, '99, but I distinctly remember you saying Christmas. You joined up at Christmas. So we're out by about a month.” He pauses, rocking very slightly, back and forth, bringing one hand up to stroke the short hair at the nape of Tommy’s neck, like he's soothing a nervous dog. "It's something else. Something more personal …”

“Alfie. Don’t,” Tommy says, splutters it into his chest, where he's hiding, increasingly desperate for Alfie to stop digging and just shut the fuck up.   
  
“Yer mum,” Alfie concludes, with a tone of quiet certainty. “It's the day your mum killed herself, innit? That's why you got so...”  
  
But he doesn't get to finish the sentence because anger shoots through Tommy like an arrow, fast and sharp and dangerous. He's up off the bed in an instant, moving on impulse, just like on the train. “Don’t say it like that,” he spits at Alfie. “Don’t fucking. Say it. Like that.”  
  
“Tommy …”  
  
“You’re just like the rest of them. You just think she was some selfish, fucked up ..." he's shaking, he can't find the rest of the words.

"Oi, I'm not that twat on the train, Tommy. Twenty years, _today_. S'ok to remember, innit? To feel something even.”  
  
"What the fuck would you know?” he shouts, pointing at Alfie, jabbing the air. "What am I supposed to feel, eh? I couldn’t fucking _stop_ her.”   
  
Alfie looks genuinely confused for a moment. “That wasn’t your job, love,” he says gently, and _fuck_ it's always the softness that gets Tommy, that makes him want to run. Like with Ada, in the bar.   
  
“Yes it _bloody-well_ was. No one else even tried.”  
  
“You were fifteen. You were a kid.”  
  
“I was old enough to do better. To learn the _fucking_ lesson.”  
  
“What lesson?” Alfie asks.  
  
“Nevermind,” Tommy says turning towards the door. He needs to get the lid back on, to stop the words boiling up from the depths of his brain and spilling out of his mouth. He's said too much already and now Alfie won't let it drop.  
  
“What lesson Tommy? What fucking _lesson_?" Alfie repeats, his confusion turning to ire.

Tommy just strides out to the living room, has to put some space between them and recover his greatest weapon. Silence. Alfie swiftly follows him out, dragging on his shirt and jeans.   
  
"What lesson?" he asks for the third time, voice exaggeratedly calm, like he's trying to convince an errant child he isn't actually cross. Tommy responds with the same steely silence, not even bothering to turn. Words are information, and information is power, better kept to himself. His body is threatening to betray him though; his eyes blaze with blood and tears, his hands want to shake with fury, so he holds it all in, keeps his back turned.  
  
"Fine," says Alfie, "you don't need to answer. I know what lesson you learnt." He's so infuriatingly sure he's _right_ and it's fuelling Tommy's anger. "You think you weren't enough to stop _her_ so you don't deserve _anyone's_ love, " Alfie shouts. "You think everyone fucks off and that if you _feel_ nothing you'll _lose_ nothing."  
  
"Stop, Alfie," he shouts at the top of his voice. "Stop picking the fucking scab. Stop making _excuses_ for me!"  
  
"Excuses?"  
  
"You just wanna believe that I'm not a heartless cunt. But nothing _excuses_ me, Alfie. Nothing _made_ me this way. I just fucking _am_, alright?"  
  
Alfie sighs deeply and rubs a hand across his forehead. "Death is a feeble teacher, Tommy. You learn a lot more from life."   
  
"Well _Doctor_ Solomons, shall I tell you what life's taught me?" Tommy says, moving closer, till they're standing toe to toe. "It doesn't matter how much you love someone if they don't love you enough to stick around. If you show weakness people'll use it. They'll suck out your innards and spit out the husks. And then they'll fucking trample all over them."  
  
They're staring at each other fiercely, but there's something dangerously close to pity behind Alfie's unblinking eyes. It finally pulls the pin on Tommy's barely contained rage...  
  
"Nothing's. Fucking. Permanent!" he shrieks, kicking over a side table. Then he screams, fucking _screams_, until his torn voice echoes around the space.   
  
"You're a fucking hypocrite," Alfie yells back, undeterred by his childish display.  
  
"How's that? Eh?" Tommy spits, "how the _fuck_ am I hypocritical??"   
  
"This Charlie, he looks fucking permanent," Alfie says, snatching Tommy's right arm by the bicep and reading the seven letters scored over the muscle.   
  
That stops Tommy in his tracks. He could almost laugh; except there's really nothing funny. It turns out misreading is as easy as reading, even for the great all-knowing Alfie Solomons. Well, if he wants to jump to the wrong conclusions then why should Tommy correct him?  
  
"I hope he makes you fucking happy, Tom," Alfie says, throwing his arm back at him. It doesn't even sound like an _outright_ lie.  
  
"He does," Tommy answers petulantly, "happier than anyone in a long time." _Tell him the truth_, the small voice screams, the voice that's weak and easily-led.  
  
"If he makes you so fuckin' happy then what was that all about?" Alfie asks, nodding towards the bedroom.  
  
"Think of it as payment, Alfie. The rescued damsel's expected to put out, right?" Tommy lets a nasty smirk form at the corner of his mouth as his words inflict the damage and become his own new truth.  
  
"Fucking hell, Tommy,” Alfie says sadly, "you'll actually let yourself believe that, won't you?"  
  
"Well, I think we've established I'm still a cunt. So why don't you just fuck off, eh? Just fucking fuck _off_!" It's meant to sound vicious, unequivocal, but his body chooses this moment to undermine him, to reveal the weakness his mind won't allow. He's overcome by such a sudden and abject weariness that his eyes droop closed and his legs give way beneath him. He recognises what's happening in a split-second of humiliation, before he collapses, helplessly on the floor. As tells go this one's pretty catastrophic; it's one of the reasons he's got so good at avoiding extremes of emotion. Because this is the result. The worst thing is that now Alfie will _know_. 

"Fuck Tommy, you still doing this?" he hears. His brain won't even grant him the mercy of losing consciousness and so he's fully aware of Alfie swearing bitterly, heaving him onto the sofa, stroking his goddamn hair. He can't speak, can't move, can't even open his eyes. All he can do is focus on Alfie's voice, strangely soothing despite the fact he was yelling only moments ago.

"S'alright mate, it'll pass." The familiarity of what's happening makes the paralysis no less terrifying, but he clings onto Alfie's words. "Won't last long, you're safe, right? Don't panic. Just overwhelmed. Not to mention fucking melodramatic." 

The real sleep that follows swallows him whole. He lets it hold him under, grateful for the dreamless hours and the escape from a wretched day. 

*****  
  


When he finally awakens, it's to dull, grey light streaming in through the high windows. He feels like he's clawing his way out of quicksand — with heavy limbs and a sore head. There's a duvet over him, a pillow under him, and Alfie is nowhere to be seen. In his place is a bemusing selection of offerings: a cup of tea, a box of painkillers and a brown wax-paper bag (an almond croissant, still warm). The tea is so hot in it's cardboard cup that there's steam spiralling out through the lid. _How the fuck_? He blinks drowsily, mind working sluggishly to piece together last night when his phone buzzes noisily from the coffee table, alerting him to a new message:   
  
**Ada's coming at 11 to check you're still alive. Let her in. Have a nice life. A. **  
  
It's 10.45. _Fuck._ His sister's going to kill him. 

*****

Ada, predictably, gives Tommy the bollocking of his life — for getting hurt; for starting the fight; for sleeping with Alfie, (he didn’t even tell her that part, which makes her absolute certainty it happened all the more disconcerting. And infuriating. And humiliating). He spends the next few weeks studiously avoiding her. And Polly. And all the other people in his life who seem to think they know more about what's good for him than he does himself. He works, he drinks, he wanks, he sleeps. He even goes back to the therapist Ada found him months ago. If thoughts of a ghost in an awful coat invade any or all of those activities, then that's nobody's business but his.   
  
He hasn’t spoken to Alfie since that night, and it's just before Christmas, when he's walking home one evening, that the impulse finally strikes. He walks into the tattoo parlour, mildly drunk, and has six new digits tattooed beneath his son's name: 20.12.17. 

Three more drinks and he sends a photo of the reddened ink to Alfie. Conscious assuaged.  
  
The following day he receives a reply by way of a picture message. It's Alfie's left hip, the familiar tattoo, with the addition of two new words. The raw, raised letters above the low-slung waistband now read – Tom _is impossible._  
  
He doesn't respond.  
  
A week later another photo. Same hip, jeans slung even lower. New ink, new words – _not to love_.

  
**\- EPILOGUE -**  


Nine months later they're lying in bed. Charlie's asleep in the next door room.  
  
"You only said no because you enjoy making me look ridiculous," Alfie says, scratching absent-mindedly at his hip.   
  
"Of all the tattoos on all your body, that's the one you think makes you look ridiculous?"  
  
"I don't know what you mean, Thomas."  
  
"Not the octopus?"  
  
"The octopus is a highly intelligent creature, much underrated in my humble opinion."  
  
"Or the elf?"  
  
"As I have told you before, that is _not_ an elf. That is very _clearly_ a leprechaun."  
  
"The third eye on your back?"  
  
"All the better to see you with, my dear."  
  
"And I'm the one who's supposed to be impossible?" he huffs.   
  
"I'm bored with this conversation. Get down there; I feel like proposing again."  
  
Tommy rolls his eyes in exasperation; it's a well-worn routine by now. He traces his tongue down Alfie's stomach.  
  
"Eyes left," Alfie says, sighing deeply as Tommy noses further south. "Now read that hip, there's a good boy."  
  
"I have," Tommy says between kisses, eyeing the elaborate cursive _marry me_ inscribed on Alfie's right hip. "The answer's still bloody no."   
  
"Shame," Alfie grumbles, lacing his fingers behind his head. "You'd better think of some way to console me while you're down there, then. To alleviate my terrible and all-consuming disappointment."   
  
"I'll try to think of something," Tommy mumbles, already licking his lips.   
  
One day he might even say yes. But until then, this is just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> * Cataplexy is a form of narcolepsy that causes sufferers to lose all muscle tone in stressful or emotional situations, appearing to fall asleep on the spot. It differs from narcolepsy in that the sufferer actually remains fully conscious.
> 
> Let me know what you think. Anyone interested in more modern AU? (I will be continuing with my Live a Lie AU, just interested in what you most like to read).


End file.
